


Santa, won’t you please bring my baby to me

by rustypeopleskillz



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Holidays, Injured Spock (Star Trek), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 02:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17092535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustypeopleskillz/pseuds/rustypeopleskillz
Summary: Spock nearly dies - again. Jim gets drunk and writes a letter to Santa, wishing for Spock.





	Santa, won’t you please bring my baby to me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlackLemonJuice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackLemonJuice/gifts).



> Yup, I went there with the title. XD 
> 
> This is for @blacklemonjuice for the @startreksecretsanta excange on Tumblr. Her prompt was "Drunk Kirk writing a letter to Santa saying all he wants for Christmas is Spock + someone finds it." I hope you like it, Lemon! I'm a big fan of your art! 
> 
> This is unbetaed and I was in a bit of a hurry, so I apologize for any mistakes.

Jim doesn’t usually let himself get this drunk. Back before Pike picked up his battered limbs from a bar room floor and kicked him in the right direction, Jim hadn’t let himself because he needed to be able to defend himself in a brawl, or because he hoped to pick someone up and not being able to perform was so not the Jim Kirk way. Nowadays, it’s responsibility that stops him from overindulging. Who would have ever thought.

It’s closing in on the holiday season when it happens, and much of the Enterprise crew is getting in the spirit for various religious and secular traditions. There’s a sense of anticipation in the air, music in all conceivable languages being played on repeat, and wherever Jim goes, there’s whispers about gifts; what to get, who’s getting who something, how to get it. He’s thinking about his own gift options more often than not – Bones will get something, of course, and he has some ideas for the rest of his officers, but would giving Spock his own heart be too dramatic? – and he doesn’t mind all the holiday spirit floating around. It’s just.

The mission is a standard research survey, full of fascinating samples and scans, and Jim isn’t down on the planet for this one. Spock got his way about regulations and someone being left to captain the ship this time, and Jim is maybe, just maybe, a bit bored, waiting around for the away team to beam back up. His fingers want to fiddle with something, and since the only thing close by is the chair controls – such as the red alert switch – he gets up to make the rounds on the bridge. He folds his hands behind his back and tries not to think about how much he loves it when Spock does that, looking all prim and proper. Jim wishes he had pockets to put his hands in instead.

“Captain, receiving a transmission from Mr. Spock,” Uhura says, just as he’s walked past her. He turns back, heart kicking against his ribs. They aren’t supposed to check in for another hour.

“Put it through, lieutenant,” he orders, leaning both hands against the console next to her, tension bunching up his shoulders. She’s already doing it, of course. The transmission crackles.

“Spock to Enterpr-... come...” Spock’s voice is even through the static, but Spock’s voice would probably be even through torture, so Jim doesn’t let that reassure him.

“Kirk here. What can we do for you, Mr. Spock?” None of his worry shines through in his voice, he’s proud to note, but Uhura looks sympathetic, so something must show on his face.

What follows is a nightmare scenario, full of hostile semi-sentient aliens, ion storms, and the away team coming back in pieces. Jim leaves Sulu at the con when Spock is finally beamed on board and rushes to the transport room. He feels sick, the tension of the last few hours churning in his gut, and it only gets worse when he reaches his destination.

Bones is already there, barking orders and stemming the blood flow from a deep wound in Spock’s shoulder. Nurses are caring for two other officers, one missing an ear and one curled around her stomach, blue blood seeping into the floor. Jim should stay out of the way, he knows, but Spock’s pale face draws him in, one step, two, and then he’s kneeling next to Bones.

“How can I help?” he asks, and Bones takes his hands and presses them to the wound.

“Keep pressure here,” Bones growls and gets to work sealing another wound, almost as deep as the one Jim is pressing his palms again. Spock stares at nothing, breathing evenly. Jim’s amazed he’s conscious.

The grating on the floor gouges into Jim’s knees as he tries his hardest to keep Spock’s blood on the inside. All around him, people are talking, giving orders, whimpering in pain. All he can see is Spock’s distant eyes, his pale lips. Even Jim knows that means he’s lost a lot of blood. Finally Bones pushes Jim’s hands away to work on the wound, and Jim sits back, not sure what to do now. His hands are green. He stares at them a little, startles when Bones calls his name.

“Jim. Get out of the way.”

Jim scrambles up, leaving room for the stretcher. Spock is finally stable enough to be moved. Bones pulls him to his feet.

“I’ll let you know when he’s out of the woods. Go get cleaned up.”

Jim blinks after them, and does as he’s told. It’s another two hours before Bones calls, giving the all clear.

 

*

 

So, Jim celebrates that night, all by himself in his quarters. He would have invited Bones, but he’s busy monitoring Spock and making sure he’s not going to die on them after all. Jim calls it celebrating, but it’s just as much a “holy shit Spock almost died what would I do without him?” drink. Drinks. There has been several drinks. Jim sighs and leans his head back on the couch arm rest, balancing the tumbler on his stomach. He should do something useful with his time instead of wallowing like this. This isn’t dignified.

“Dignified,” he mutters, and then he says it again. “Dignified.” It’s a good word. Serious. Spock would probably sound amazing saying it.

The floor tilts when Jim gets up, but his desk chair is there to rescue him. He slides into it gratefully. It’s a good chair. Trustworthy. He pats it. The tumbler goes on the desk, only spilling a little, and then Jim can reach for a PADD. He’s got work to do. Reports to file.

Instead, he opens an empty document and stares at it. What the hell. It’s Christmas, among other things.

 _Dear Santa,_ he writes, laughing a little at himself even as he does it. _I know we haven’t ever really talked, except that one time my mom made me send you a letter about how naughty I’d been, but I have a request._ He pauses to take a drink and rub his chest. Even through the alcohol he feels ridiculous, but his heart hurts and Spock is in sick bay and nothing is as it should be. _I wish for Spock this Christmas, Santa. That’s all I want. Just Spock. I know you can’t really give people to other people, that would be weird and immoral and stuff, but could you just… let me know if he likes me back? That would be great. Thanks, Santa._

He sighs and sits back. There, he wrote it. He rubs his eyes, suddenly unable to keep the open a second longer. Bed. Beds are good. He leaves the glass and the PADD sitting on the desk, forgotten.

 

*

 

When McCoy goes to check on Jim after his shift, feet dragging with exhaustion and neck tense with an impending headache, he finds him passed out drunk on his bed, still in his uniform. Since it feels like he has Spock’s green blood stuck under his fingernails – no matter how much he’s scrubbed his hands – he can’t blame Jim for overindulging. Hell, he’s tempted to join him when he spots the half drunk tumbler on the desk. Instead, he pulls Jim’s boots off, rolls him over so he won’t choke on his own vomit, and sets the computer to monitor his vital signs, CMO’s orders. Jim doesn’t so much as mumble at the manhandling, and McCoy shakes his head. The protective surge that wells over him he’s used to. What would this idiot do without him?

He goes to empty the tumbler and fill it with water, and that’s when he spots Jim’s PADD, screen shining from the desk, just a few lines of text in an otherwise empty document. Worry spikes, and he picks it up.

 _..._ _I wish for Spock this Christmas, Santa._

McCoy blinks down at the words, then raises his eyebrow at Jim’s sleeping back. Well. That confirms that. What McCoy doesn’t get is why Jim isn’t going after what he wants. It’s not like the kid is shy in any sense of the word. Must be serious indeed.

McCoy closes down the PADD, drinks Jim’s whiskey – no sense in wasting good drink – and then goes to fill the tumbler with water. Seems like he has to take things into his own hands.

 

*

 

When Jim wakes up, it’s to the ear splitting sound of the bosun whistle. He groans and forces himself up, almost knocking over a glass of water on his nightstand when he reaches for his comm. He blinks at it as he answers.

“Kirk here.”

There’s a hypo next to the water, and a note.

“Captain, there’s a message for you from Command. Shall I send it to your quarters?”

He picks up the note.

_You passed out drunk, kid. Drink the whole glass or I will know._

“Sir?”

“What?” Right, he’s talking to someone. “Uh, yeah, patch it through. Thank you, Ensign.”

He groans and forces himself out of bed, grabbing the hypo and the glass as he stumbles to his desk. The water is room temperature but feels cool and soft in his throat, and the hypo stings going in, waking him up just a little more. His head clearer, he sits down to watch the video message, pushing his PADD out of the way to get to the desk console. His whiskey glass is nowhere to be found. Good old Bones.

Command wants a few points cleared up about Spock’s near fatal away mission, and Jim shakes his head at his own sub par report from the day before. He really needs to get his feelings under control if they’re affecting his work. Spock would disapprove.

His chest hurts again, worry and guilt tightening his lungs, and he can’t help but contact sick bay.

“McCoy here. He’s fine, Jim,” Bones says before Jim can even ask. “Still unconscious but that’s that damn Vulcan trance thing he does, nothing to worry about.”

Jim scowls down at his comm, and wants to come up with some other reason to be calling so he can prove Bones doesn’t know his as well as he presumes. He comes up with nothing.

“Alright, well, thank you,” he says, clearing his throat.

McCoy’s voice softens.

“I’ll call you as soon as he wakes up.”

“Good. Great. Kirk out.”

 

*

 

Spock is declared fit for duty four days later. Jim has tried to stay away from sick bay, if only because Spock needed his rest, but he’s found himself outside its doors after every shift, worried knot in his throat only releasing when he saw Spock sitting up in his bio bed, PADD in hand. Bones hasn’t commented, but he keeps shooting Jim knowing looks that Jim wasn’t sure he liked. It has chased Jim back to his quarters with an unpleasant feeling that his best friend could see right through him, that he knew exactly why Jim couldn’t stay away from Spock.

When Spock walks onto the bridge, bruises still visibly green on his face and hands, but standing and walking and looking better than Jim had seen him in a long time, Jim truly relaxes for the first time all week. Spock’s eyes meet his, warm brown and nowhere near as neutral as Jim had thought them years ago. Jim grins at him.

“Welcome back, Mr. Spock.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Spock’s eyes smile, and his mouth twitches a little, and it’s only when Uhura passes by Spock, cutting off their line of sight, that Jim realizes they’ve been staring at each other. He clears his throat.

“Meeting in my ready room at fifteen hundred hours, to go over the findings from V’Her Five.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Spock breaks eye contact and makes his way to his station, and the bridge finally feels right again. Jim contains a smile, and goes back to work.

 

*

 

Jim starts noticing something is up that same day. He’s meeting Spock in his quarters after shift to finish that chess game they never got around to, and when he buzzes to enter, Bones opens the door.

“Hello, Jim,” he says, looking smug as he brushes past.

“Bones?” Jim blinks after him, but Bones doesn’t look back, just keeps walking. Maybe he’d been to check on Spock’s injuries? Jim shrugs and lets it go, and if Spock watches him more intently than normal that night, Jim puts it down to the way he’s winning so soundly.

The next day, Jim joins Spock and Bones for lunch, just a few minutes late due to a new yeoman who’d needed a pep talk. He’s feeling old and wise, and feeling weird about feeling old and wise, but he still notices when Bones shoots Spock a Look. Spock ignores him and keeps eating his soup, so Bones rolls his eyes and launches into story about the latest virus and its gruesome effects on the human skin. Jim tries not to lose his appetite, and forgets all about the look.

That night, he overhears them arguing in the rec room. This in itself is not unusual, since it’s Spock and Bones, but they are trying to keep their voices down, and that perks Jim’s curiosity. He listens intently from where he’s sitting, playing cards with Scotty.

“… while intoxicated are not a good basis for making decisions.”

“Good God, man, you are more blind than a bat.” McCoy’s voice rises, then falls again, so low that Jim can’t hear it. He turns to look. Spock is standing in the corner, shoulders stiff, hands behind his back, and McCoy is leaning in, intense, angry. Spock shakes his head, and McCoy throws his hands up. “Just ask him,” he growls, and then he stalks out, trailing frustrated anger and muttered curses.

Spock looks up and meets Jim’s eyes, and Jim feels his lungs constrict. What’s going on? Spock follows Bones, looking away from Jim, and Jim’s stomach sours. He makes some excuse to Scotty and gets up, the friendly green, red and yellow lights strung up around the rec room blinking mockingly at him. He leaves just as Uhura starts singing something soft and lovely in Swahili. Any other day, he would have stayed, but today a sense of dreadful urgency has taken over.

He catches up with Spock outside his quarters, just as the doors are opening.

“Spock!” he calls, jogging to reach him, and Spock raises an eyebrow.

“Captain? Is there an emergency?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Jim waves a hand through the air. “Um. I just wanted to ask what was going on with you and Bones?”

Spock looks shifty, confirming that there was indeed something going on.

“I see.” He makes no attempt to deny that something is going on, instead gesturing for Jim to proceed him into his cabin. As always, it is much warmer here than in the corridor, and the heat seeps into Jim’s bones, soothing after the near chill of the rest of the ship. It smells of incense and Spock, pleasant and familiar. There is a small menorah set up on the table in front of Spock’s meditation mat, and it makes Jim smile. Even here, holidays are being celebrated.

Spock lets the door close behind him and comes to a stop in the middle of the room, facing Jim. His eyes, while always intense in their scrutiny, seems to be looking for something specific. Jim shifts, the sole of his boot dragging loudly against the floor.

“Doctor McCoy informed me that he thought you harbored feelings of a romantic nature towards me,” Spock finally says, eyes boring into Jim. Jim’s heart kicks into double time, beating in his throat.

“He- he did?” It is suddenly impossible to look at Spock. “Listen, Spock...”

“I protested that had you any such feelings for me, surely you would have told me about them. To do otherwise would be illogical.” Spock raises a challenging eyebrow, just visible out of the corner of Jim’s eye. “He did not agree.”

Jim huffs a laugh, because he can just imagine Bones’ reaction to that. He chances a look at Spock’s face, quickly, as if he’ll get burned if he lingers for too long. Spock still has that challenging eyebrow going. He’s going to make Jim say it. Something about that boosted Jim’s confidence, and he straightens up, facing Spock full on.

“Spock. I harbor romantic feelings for you.” He sounds just as challenging as Spock looks, and of course this would be how he does it: on a dare. Always on a dare. “I haven’t said anything because I am your commanding officer, and also because I didn’t...” His confidence falters. He takes a deep breath. “Because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

Spock’s face softens.

“There is nothing you could confess that would have that power, Jim.”

Jim has a lump in his throat, so he clears it, crosses his arms. Nods.

“Good,” he says feebly. “I mean. Same.”

Spock takes a step closer, and Jim’s heart sets up a punishing beat against his ribs. What.

“I must confess,” Spock says, voice low, eyes burning. Jim’s throat goes dry. “That I have also acted illogically in this matter.” He takes another step, putting him in Jim’s personal space. It’s a space that has grown used to Spock, a space where he looks comfortable. Jim always wants to reach out and touch when Spock is this close, wants to run his fingers over Spock’s face, grip his shoulders, kiss his lips. Something crackles between them.

“You have?” Jim asks, the hope blocking his airways, seizing his lungs.

“I have,” Spock confirms. His lips twitch with humor. “Jim, I harbor romantic feelings for you.”

The giddy relief comes out as a laugh, and Jim finally reaches out, crosses those last few inches between them, hand landing in Spock’s neck. His skin is warm, a little rough to the touch, and there are no healing bruises here for Jim to worry about. Spock meets him halfway in a human kiss, their lips buzzing with _finally, finally, finally._ They pull back minutes or hours later, breathing coming in gasps, and Jim’s gut clenches at the way Spock’s pupils have eaten his irises. His hand tightens on Spock’s neck.

“Come to bed with me,” Jim rasps. Spock does.

 

Much later, there is a ship wide holiday party. Bones spots them as they enter together, and his grin when he sees them is so smug as to be unbearable. Jim rolls his eyes and goes to meet him, Spock trailing behind, but instead of the mocking he was counting on, Bones’ smile softens.

“Merry Christmas, Jim,” he says, handing them both drinks. Jim grins, pulling Bones into a grateful hug and then knocking his elbow against Spock’s. Bones grins cheekily at the Vulcan, but before he can say something to rile Spock up, Jim touches his shoulder.

“Merry Christmas, Bones. Thank you for my gift.”

Bones harrumphs but looks pleased. Spock touches his fingers in a Vulcan kiss, right there in front of everyone, and Jim can’t stop grinning.

It’s a good party.

**Author's Note:**

> For a teetotaler, I sure write a lot of drunk people...
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://rustypeopleskillz.tumblr.com) and/or on [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/rustypeopleskillz).


End file.
